


in earth, and sky, and sea

by charcoalcas



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bunker Fic, Domestic Dirty Talk, Easter, Established Relationship, Fluff, Hand Jobs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-23
Updated: 2015-04-23
Packaged: 2018-03-25 11:16:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3808330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charcoalcas/pseuds/charcoalcas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s Easter morning when Castiel tells Dean over breakfast that he had a crush on Jesus Christ.</p>
            </blockquote>





	in earth, and sky, and sea

It’s Easter morning when Castiel tells Dean over breakfast that he had a crush on Jesus Christ.

Dean watches him, syrup-slathered waffle halfway to his mouth, to see if he’s joking. He isn’t. Cas turns his attention back to the newspaper spread out on the table between them, shaking the whipped cream bottle as he reads, applying a generous coating to his plate.

“Wait,” Dean feels like an idiot, slack-jawed and slow. “You mean... Jesus.”

Cas, for good measure, has sprayed some whipped cream directly into his mouth. He looks up at Dean with swollen cheeks and nods, completely unperturbed, like they’re discussing the weather.

“Like.... the actual Jesus Christ.” Again, Cas nods. “Like... Christmas and Mel Gibson and ‘go tell it on the mountain’ actual Son of God Jesus?”

Cas dumps some sliced strawberries onto his plate. “He wasn’t necessarily the Son of God. Some of us believed he was nephilim, others just a prophet.”

“And you liked him. Like, like liked him.”

Cas dips his chin and smiles down at his lap. There’s some whipped cream caught on a corner of his mouth. “I did.”

Dean nods, struggling to comprehend and accept this. They have moments like this one every now and then where Dean’s reminded of just how ancient and ubiquitous Cas is (”Was,” Cas sometimes corrects him. “I’m not an angel anymore.” But it’s never going to be past tense to Dean; Castiel will always be galaxies to him, stardust in flesh, incomprehensible and familiar, regardless of if his batteries are powered by grace or the sapling of a soul they had found blooming inside him).

Wonder at his boyfriend soon gives way to self-hate, as it does, and this is at least something Dean can understand. He feels guilty again, like he dragged Cas down from Heaven himself in a riches to rags story that’s too selfish to bear.

Maturely, Dean takes it out on his waffles and stabs into them viscously. Cas peers at him over the paper, concerned.

“Dean.”

“Just kind of a downgrade for you. I mean, savior of mankind to - to... whatever the hell I am these days.”

“You did save mankind, if you don’t remember,” Castiel says patiently, folding the paper and setting it beside his apple juice. He smiles, that small one that’s so bright it lights Dean up inside, top to bottom. “I suppose I have a type.”

A type. Because Castiel loves Dean, for some reason. He told him so one night, a few weeks after he moved into the bunker but settled in Dean’s room, when they were both reading in bed. Dean exhales and tries to reel it back.

“I’m sorry if that was too much,” Castiel says, reaching over the table and laying his hand palm up in invitation. Dean takes him up on it and closes his hand around Cas’. Cas rubs his thumb over Dean’s skin until Dean’s hand relaxes. “I forget, sometimes, how... illustrious he is to you. He was just a man when I knew him. A good man. A righteous man.” Castiel lifts an eyebrow at Dean. “And a special man. But still just a man.”

“You don’t need to apologize, Cas.” Dean squeezes his hand and then pulls away back to his plate. “Sorry I was an ass.”

They go back to their waffles then, though Cas sticks a socked foot against Dean’s leg and rubs it there as they eat. Absurdly, Dean blushes and smiles, and, halfway through the small mountain of fresh fruit that Cas insists he eats, starts to worry that now Cas feels like he can’t talk to Dean about his life before. Dean doesn’t want Cas to ever feel like he can’t talk to him.

“So, was he cute?”

“Who,” Cas says, leaning forward to steal some of Dean’s waffle off his plate. He always does this, insists that he does not want chocolate chips in his waffles and acts all superior about having fruit in his and then steals some of Dean’s.

“Jesus,” Dean says, like it’s obvious, and somehow it is. He’s sitting in an underground bunker at a breakfast table from Wal-Mart talking with a former wavelength or whatever about his crush on Christ. Dean wouldn’t change a thing.

Cas raises his brows and chews thoughtfully. 

“You reminded me of him,” he finally says, washing his stolen food down with a stolen sip of Dean’s expertly made chocolate milk. “When we first met.”

Dean blanches. “I’m like Jesus. How the hell do you reckon that?”

"You’re both stubborn.” The answer is immediate, like Cas has thought about this before. “Reckless. Rebellious. Passionate. Kind. Intelligent.”

Dean’s disbelief must show because Cas stands up and walks around their small breakfast table and seats himself on Dean’s lap. Cas is still sleep-warm and rumpled, in nothing but his robe and a pair of Dean’s boxers and ugly, mismatched socks. He exhales softly when he settles, rests his elbows around Dean on the back of the chair.

They look at each other for a moment. Dean shakes his head, so Cas kisses him, soft and chaste.

“Your souls,” Cas murmurs, resting his forehead against Dean’s. “Your souls are warm and bright and open. They welcome and nurture.” He kisses Dean’s jaw and Dean feels the touch in his bones.

“Cas.”

“I could feel you, in Hell,” Cas says. “Before I saw you. Because you are so good. I could feel you.” Cas kisses him for real then and Dean god damn whimpers, grips Cas’ hips over his thick, fluffy, ridiculous robe like it’s tethering him to the ground.

“You are both,” Cas pecks Dean quick on the mouth, like he’s signing his name after that god damned masterpiece of a kiss. “Frustratingly intent on self-sacrifice. You love wholly, with your entire being, but don’t consider yourselves worthy of any in return.” Cas pulls his arms in and runs his hands, hot and gentle, up Dean’s neck and snakes one back down his chest. “Neither of you thought you deserved to be saved. But you were.”

“Fuck, Cas,” Dean whispers, dropping his head against Cas’ chest and wrapping his arms around him. Cas shifts in his lap and returns the embrace, holds him.

A beat, and Dean feels Cas chuckle against his cheek. “And you are both very handsome.”

Dean lifts his head, mouth twisted around a grin, and sees Cas smiling shyly down at him, eyes alight.

It’s ludicrous, Dean thinks, how much he loves him. “You’re not too bad yourself, there, hot stuff.” 

Cas starts to roll his eyes so Dean grips his ass and pushes him back against the table, knocking their plates and the vase Cas filled with wildflowers, to pepper kisses all over Cas’ chest until he’s laughing and kicking at him.

Castiel, former angel of the lord, is celestial and holy and ticklish, spread out underneath Dean with crinkled eyes and that big gummy smile that makes Dean’s stomach flip like pancakes. Dean wants to tell Cas how good he is too, how fucking happy he makes him and how unbelievable that is. How Dean felt him in Hell just like Cas felt him. But he needs time to string those words together, so for now his hands and mouth will have to make do.

Cas is breathless and sweaty and sticking his hand down the front of Dean’s sweats when Dean lifts his head from Cas’ neck and asks, “You ever dyed eggs before?”

“Why would I dye eggs.” Impatient, Cas wiggles against the table and nudges the backs of Dean’s thighs, urging him to continue. “Have you? Is that a.... tradition?”

“I haven’t.” Dean lowers his head back to Cas’ neck and Cas groans appreciatively. “And it is. And I kind of really wanna boil some eggs and dye the fuck out of ‘em with you.”

“Yeah?”

“Fuck yeah. Domestic and shit,” Dean moans when Cas’ hand finds its target and gets right to fucking business.

“Mhm,” Cas murmurs, running his free hand through Dean’s hair so he’ll lift his head and kiss him some more. “I like being domestic with you. We can -” his breath hitches because Dean’s brain cells unclenched enough to let him start reciprocating. “Go to the store after we - we finish. Get some groceries.” Dean moans. “For a formal dinner. We need - we should buy some decorations. For our home.”

“Shit,” Dean says, voice hoarse. “Cas, Cas.”

“Yes.” Cas nods and his eyes flutter shut, his own rhythm against Dean faltering as Dean’s breath becomes labored. “I need to know, Dean. How to do these things. Dye eggs and - and festivities, if we have a...” He moans, wanton, and moves the hand in Dean’s hair to grip the back of his neck to bring him closer. “When we have a family one day.”

Dean freezes and falls silent and shudders, breath gasped out against Cas’ neck, and Cas follows.

They don’t do anything special with the eggs. No stickers or strategizing, though Dean can tell Cas is mentally taking notes for next time. They dye them in plain colors. Cas gets experimental towards the end and dip dyes his last three. Dean figures out they can use the white crayon included and draws a dick on one of his. They all turn out pretty good, in his opinion. 

Dean and Cas admire them for a while, send some pictures to Claire and Sam and Charlie, then throw some salt and pepper on their creations and grab some beers and hike out through the woods to the river. Cas tells Dean more stories there, as they’re wading through the water with full bellies and high spirits. They kiss under a cloudless blue sky in the rush of cool, clear water, and it feels more purifying than any baptism in a church.

Cas says Jesus would agree.

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted on tumblr. title taken from the hymn "holy holy holy."


End file.
